


Like I'll Never Be The Same

by timespaceredundancy



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M, Mild Smut, Songfic, Van Days
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-03-23 13:44:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3770461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timespaceredundancy/pseuds/timespaceredundancy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Songfic of "Of All The Gin Joints In All The World"</p>
<p>The van crash makes Patrick do something that changes his life--and Pete's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You Only Hold Me Up Like This 'Cause You Don't Know Who I Really Am

**Author's Note:**

> I'll try to post at least twice a week.

He was definitely grateful for the fans—the whole band lived and sweated and bled for them. What he wasn’t prepared for was what the media would do. Pete could take hits with the best of them, and often did when literal push came to shove. But words are different—they sting and linger in your head in ways nobody means them to. The words grow into their own demons, and they team up with the other demons that live inside you. Pete kept himself busy, doing whatever he could to keep the demons from getting to him. When he wasn’t writing and the band wasn’t practicing, he was plotting some wild adventure for his friends. Sometimes, though, the demons would win. They encourage you to do things you know you’ll regret. Some drunk guy would insult the band, and Pete would swing at him until he was either pried away or had his ass handed to him. He’d bare his soul out online, and a stranger would post a mocking reply. While Pete had become used to his peers making fun of him, he wasn’t prepared for the number of people tearing into him to grow so massively. The first critics to chalk up the band to four whining boys Pete was able to laugh off, but then when the sentiment was repeated by more blogs and critics, it became harder to ignore. The lyrics bore Pete’s soul, they were flooded with his memories and emotions. How could they not understand this?


	2. Sometimes I Just Want To Know What It's Like To Be You

Once in a while, Pete entertained the thought of finishing his degree and living an average life. Sometimes, he found himself longing to understand what it felt like to have control over his demons. Normal. What other people felt. And, sometimes, he got a taste of what that felt like, when he was working with Patrick. Pete had been in several bands before Fall Out Boy, written songs with other people, but somehow Patrick could transform the feelings behind the lyrics into music. Patrick seemed to understand what Pete was trying to convey in a way nobody else ever could. When they worked together on a song, Pete’s demons were comatose. He never wanted to stop working with Patrick. When a song was done, it felt like the aching in his heart behind the lyrics was soothed, made whole by the magic that was Patrick’s music. They celebrated those moments with eyes glittering with pride and a few beers on the hood of a car.


	3. We're Making Out Inside Crashed Cars

Wheels slid across ice. Metal crunched against trees. Glass shattered over the floor. Pete’s heart stopped. He sat, rigid with fear and panic. He looked over to see Andy’s knuckles ghost white on the steering wheel, his face frozen in shock. As his breathing steadied, Pete turned to scan the back seats. Joe was clutching the door handle, doubled over and hyperventilating. Patrick’s eyes were full of terror and fixated on the window that had shattered. Pain shot through Pete’s heart as he saw the horror in Patrick’s face. Andy’s soft voice broke the silence

“Holy fuck. We’re alive,” he sputtered, choking on the words.

“Man, and I thought _I_ was a wreck,” Pete chuckled through a shit eating grin. Joe leapt up from his seat and punched Pete’s arm. Andy broke into laughter, waking Patrick from his shock with a smirk. Andy and Joe piled out of the van to escape more awful attempts at humor. Patrick’s gaze had wandered back to where the window once was.

“Hey, ‘Trick, you ok?” Pete climbed to the seat in front of Patrick, kneeling on the seat and resting his elbows on the back. Patrick’s mouth was slightly agape, his eyes revealing the flood of thoughts roaring through his mind.

“’Trick? Come back to me, buddy.” His voice was tentative with concern and care. When Patrick failed to respond, Pete leaned further towards him, squeezing his shoulder. Patrick slowly turned to Pete until their eyes met. The intensity in Patrick’s eyes was unfamiliar to Pete. “Hey there, man. Talk to—“

Patrick’s hands shot up to Pete’s face, pulling him forward until their lips met. An electric shock of surprise ran through Pete. Patrick kissed him, hard and desperate. It was over in a matter of seconds, but it felt like several minutes. When Patrick pulled away, breathing hard, he grabbed his coat and bolted out of the van. Pete was left frozen where he was kneeling.

 _What was that? Did Patrick just… Yeah. He definitely did. Holy shit._ Pete’s thoughts were stumbling over one another, incoherent and lost.


	4. ...And Sleeping Through All Our Memories

_The computer played back the song as Patrick sang along, Pete watching in awe. As the music came to an end, Patrick looked at Pete for approval. Pete was speechless. Patrick’s sparkling blue eyes fell, unsure of what the lyricist thought of his interpretation of the lyrics. Pete breathed in sharply in fear that the younger man had mistook his shock for disapproval._

_“No, Patrick, please… It was awesome!” Pete placed a careful hand on Patrick’s shoulder. The singer looked up, eyelashes sparkling with choked tears. “More than awesome. It was perfect.”_ _The corners of Patrick’s mouth turned upwards ever so slightly. Those perfect, rose pink lips._

_“I wasn’t sure if the riff on the second verse would frame the metaphor well enough.” Patrick spoke quietly, cautiously._

_“_ _Dude, this is your first try at my lyrics, and you got it down perfectly,” he beamed with pride. “You get my lyrics in a way nobody else does. You make them into music. You’re like the trick up a magician’s sleeve, and you’ve got me hanging on what you’ll do next. You’re my trick.” _

_A long pause pervaded the air before Pete realized his hands had brushed up against Patrick’s (now flushed) cheeks. Pete kept his hands there, gingerly cupping the singer’s face. Their eyes were fixated on each other in anticipation. Pete felt himself leaning towards Patrick. When their lips met, waves of passion poured over Pete._

Pete woke to the sharp jab of someone’s elbow in his rib and a beam of sunlight pouring through the curtains and onto his face.

“Dude, roll over, you’re pushing me off the bed,” Joe grumbled over his shoulder. “Also, go take a cold shower if you’re coming back to bed. I don’t want to wake up to your dick in my back again.”

Pete stumbled out of the bed towards the bathroom. He was embarrassed, but not of the morning wood. That’s just natural shit, and Joe was always groggy and grouchy before his coffee. He recalled the dream. It was the night Patrick and Pete first worked on a song together, the first time Pete had trusted Patrick with his lyrics. Except… something was different. Pete’s hands didn’t go anywhere by Patrick’s shoulder, and they definitely didn’t kiss. Well, not that night, anyway. Pete recalled the previous day, the brief moment alone after the crash, the press of strong hands to his face, the desperate and sudden kiss. He felt himself blush and buried his face in his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After the crash, Pete and Joe share a hotel room and--because they're broke--a bed.


	5. I Used To Waste My Time Dreaming Of Being Alive

The day dragged on after they fine-tuned the new schedule for the music video and made arrangements for transportation back to Chicago. Mostly, the crash was still sinking in with the band. The majority of their equipment had been damaged or completely trashed with the trailer. Patrick brought up a few times the fact that he would have been dead if he’d been sitting in the seat in front of where he had been.

_Maybe that’s why he…_ Pete thought, refusing to complete the sentence. After Patrick had kissed Pete, he had immediately joined Andy and Joe in gawking at the damage from outside the van. Pete had lingered in the van, frozen with shock. When Andy checked on him, Pete claimed the shock was because of the crash. Andy bought it without question. Later, Pete had opted to room with Joe instead of Patrick, pointing out that he and Joe weren’t nearly as tired as Andy and Patrick were.

Pete was determined to put it behind him, in the past with bad decisions that had bad (or worse) outcomes. Besides, if Patrick wanted to talk about it, he’d do so on his own time. For now, he had to focus on getting the band organized again. He had made the call to their manager about the setback and equipment after they’d sat down for coffee. He had rearranged for the music video to be shot the next week, in Chicago instead. He had let his mom know he was fine, and that he’d be home sooner than planned. He even wrote a few pages of lyrics. Everything was fine; everything was normal. The dream meant nothing—just his psyche screwing with him a bit. It wasn’t unusual for his dreams to be vivid, and it wasn’t unusual for his dreams to alter memories a bit. It should, of course, follow reason that he’d dream something like that after experiencing a fair amount of shock. Pete refused to dwell on what happened, or why it had happened, and instead focused on writing more. His daydreams were of trading dive bar gigs for amphitheater concerts and having a big house with a big, wrinkly dog. Hopefully, his psyche would take a hint and follow suit.

Pete carried on as usual, cracking jokes that made at least one of the other guys punch him, leaving the others wheezing with laughter.


	6. Now I Only Waste It Dreaming Of You

_They stumbled the short distance from the bar to the van, holding each other up. Their tenth show had been pretty great, considering how small of a band they were._

_“Triiiiick, we neeeed to get this plastered more offen!” Pete slurred, squeezing Patrick’s shoulder._

_“Pete, I fffuckin ssswear, if you call me ‘Trick’ again, I’m gonna punch you,” Patrick replied through laughter. “It makes me sssound like a hooker.”_

_“Nah, man, you’re the ace in my sleeve. But you’d make a fuckin hot hooker. I’d pay for you!” he beamed at Patrick. They had finally reached the van._

_“Yeah, bet you would, you fuckin horndog.” Patrick smirked at Pete, who had slumped against the van in front of him. “Fuck y—“_

_Pete grabbed Patrick’s collar, pulling him towards him until their lips met. Pete kissed Patrick hard, coaxing his mouth open until he could slip his tongue past Patrick’s teeth. Patrick brought his hands to Pete’s face, pulling from the kiss briefly to bite Pete’s lower lip. Pete felt himself longing for more, letting his hands wander under Patrick’s shirt._

Pete woke, gasping for air. Andy’s hand was on his arm, reaching back from the front seat.

“You ok, man? Sounded like you were having a pretty rough dream, there.” Andy’s gentle voice was laced with worry, his eyes matching with care.

“Y-yeah, just… Weird dream. Yeah,” Pete managed between haggard breaths. He looked to his left, noting Patrick had been out cold against the opposite side of the car.

“You good?” Andy asked, genuinely concerned.

“Yeah, no worries.” Pete rubbed his temples. Another dream that changed the ending of a memory? Yeah, his psyche was definitely fucking with him. He felt he desperately needed more sleep. But what if he had another dream like that? And, even worse, what if he said something in his sleep that sounded suspicious? He fished a Red Bull from his backpack, along with his CD player, headphones, notebook, and pen. Seven hours to go. This was going to be a rough trip.

\-----

Pete was in the middle of writing a new lyric, trying to find the right way to finish the metaphor. His pen hovered over the page, his mind searching his internal thesaurus and his emotions for the right words.

 _Wear me like a locket around your throat, I’ll…_ Pete sighed. _What the fuck rhymes with throat that fits here?_ He sat, contemplating, while he slowly lost the battle to stay awake.

_It was one of those cherished nights where they got to stay in a motel instead of the van. The place only had one two-bed room left, and the rest were all one-bed rooms. Pete and Andy arm wrestled for the two-bed room, though Pete knew he stood no chance against the drummer. That left Pete and Patrick with the one-bed room. Patrick had given up hope the moment Andy had suggested the competition for the rooms. There was no way Pete would back down from a challenge._

_When they entered their room, Patrick and Pete moved to either side of the bed, already knowing which side they’d be sleeping on from past experience. Pete dropped his bag, while Patrick hesitated._

_“Pete, maybe we could switch sides for once?” Patrick suggested. “My arm’s getting sore from sleeping on the same side.”_

_“No way, ‘Trick. I’m sleeping closer to the door. What if a burglar busts in?” Pete smirked, the seriousness in his words masked in humor._

_“There’s no way a burglar would break in here. Please, just let me give my arm a break.” Patrick’s eyes were stern, edged with exhaustion._

_“You could roll over and spoon me,” Pete crooned, waggling his eyebrows, a shit eating grin overtaking his face. He hopped up onto the bed, patting the empty space next to him. Patrick could tell there was no winning this battle, and finally dropped his bag._

_When both were finally lying in bed, Patrick was in a shirt and his boxers, while Pete had stripped down to just his boxers. Patrick let out a resigned sigh, rolling off of his bad shoulder until he was facing Pete._

_“I can’t sleep. How about you?”_

_“Nope,” Pete replied, immediately turning to face Patrick. Their faces were inches apart. The silence between them was heavy with expectation and uncertainty, neither of them sure what the other wanted._

_“I could sing you to sl—“ Patrick was (rudely) interrupted when Pete closed the distance between them and kissed him with a fire-like passion. Startled at first, Patrick eventually gave in and responded by grabbing Pete around the waist and pulling their bodies together. Pete moaned into Patrick’s mouth and pulled away, only to move to his neck. He began biting and sucking below Patrick’s ear, forcing a soft grunt out of the singer. Patrick’s fingers dug into Pete’s back, pulling them even closer until their hips crashed together. Pete felt Patrick hard against him, sending a wave of heated desire through him and pouring out of him in the form of another, more desperate moan into Patrick’s neck. Patrick began to grind against him and scratched down Pete’s back._

_“F-fuck, Pa—_

Trick!” Pete woke, jumping forward. Patrick’s hand had been on his arm, now pulled away. They were at a gas station, and it was just the two of them in the car.

Patrick hesitated before addressing him. “Are… are you ok?”

The blood drained from Pete’s face as he sat, frozen, his hands on his knees and his eyes glued to Patrick’s. Patrick’s face flushed with confusion, concern, and the knowledge of something Pete was praying to any god had nothing to do with the dream.

“Y…yeah, I just…” Pete stammered, still struggling to regain control over himself.

“Pete, what were you dreaming about?” Patrick asked, tentative yet demanding.

“Fuck, nothing, I just… I’ve gotta go,” Pete blurted out. He made quick work of the seatbelt and the car door before he bolted to the gas station bathroom. Pete slammed the door shut behind him, making sure it was locked before he sank against the wall. Cursing at himself, Pete slammed a fist against the cold tile floor, feeling the pain run through his hand in catharsis with his internal turmoil.


	7. Turn Off The Lights And Turn Off The Shyness

Someone knocked on the door. Pete jumped, tears still stinging his face. It had been a week since they wrapped up the music video. He had pretty successfully avoided being alone with Patrick, but his mom had become tired of fielding his calls.

“J-just a sec,” he shouted at the door. Pete pried himself off the ground, knees aching and his chest tight. Seeing Patrick was simultaneously the last and first thing he wanted right now. Although he’d known it was inevitable, Pete was in no way ready to talk to him. He opened the door, wearing the best host face he could manage.

“Pete, what the fuck?” Patrick spat the words out, his face both livid and concerned.

“Hello to you too, buddy,” Pete stepped aside, gesturing for Patrick to come into the room. Patrick immediately sat on the corner of the bed while Pete closed the door.

“Again, what the fuck? You’ve ignored all of my calls and texts. When we’re with the band, you never want to be alone with me. What did I do wrong?” Patrick’s voice cracked on the last word, distraught at the notion it might be his fault. The words stung Pete at his core. How could he explain to Patrick that it wasn’t anything he had done?

“Nothing, Trick… I just… ugh,” Pete grunted in frustration. He slumped against the wall, sliding down it until he was on the floor again. Spoken words, in a serious context, were difficult. He was better with a pen. “Nothing, alright? You’ve been fine, you’ve been great. It’s not you, it’s me.” Pete trained his eyes on the floor.

“ _It’s not you, it’s me_ ,” Patrick repeated. “I’m not your girlfriend, Pete. You’re not breaking up with me. Tell me what’s wrong. You know you can unload on me.” Patrick leaned his elbows against his knees, bending over to get closer to Pete’s line of sight.

“No, I can’t. Not about everything,” Pete sighed, shaking his head. He stared as he ran his fingers through the carpet, avoiding meeting Patrick’s gaze. Pete had spent enough time crying without looking his guilt in the eyes; he wasn’t sure he could hold anything in if he saw the hurt in Patrick’s.

“Bull fuckin’ shit, Pete. Talk to me,” Patrick demanded. His eyelashes were strewn with held back tears, forming a constellation around his eyes.

“No, you don’t understand, I—“

“It’s about that dream you had on the way home from the crash, isn’t it?” Patrick interrupted. His face was stern and serious, showing no sign of wavering.

“...H-how did you know?” Pete relented.

“You fuckin ran from me when you woke up, and you never told me what was wrong. I sort of figured,” Patrick sighed, eyes falling to the floor. The toll of the weight this bore on him was clear and heavy. “What was it even about?”

“…Nothing, just a stupid nightmare,” Pete mumbled, throwing the words against the wall in hope they would stick.

“Don’t bullshit me, Pete,” Patrick spat back instantly, as though he had expected the answer.

“I’m not, I—“

“No. I heard the sounds you made, and I heard you say my name at the end of it all.” Pete winced at Patrick’s words, expecting him to tell him how vile it was and how it repulsed him. When neither came, Pete looked up at Patrick to see his eyes near pleading, tinged with hope.

“…You’re not disgusted?” Pete ventured, careful not to overstep any boundaries.

“What was the dream about?” the singer insisted. It was clear he would not be moved off this topic. Pete, seeing no escape, sighed and fixed his eyes on the floor once again.

“Remember the first time on tour you sang me to sleep?” The bassist ran his fingers through the carpet, wishing for the planet to open up and swallow him whole.

“Of course, and we wrote that god awful lullaby that made no sense,” Patrick chuckled, grinning at the memory.

“Yeah, well… In the dream, instead of writing the lullaby, we sort of…” Pete tensed up, biting his lip. The air was thick with anticipation, and Pete was drowning in it. Patrick’s eyes widened slightly, eager to hear the rest of the story, but clearly holding back his excitement. The bassist plucked a strand of carpet from the floor, rolling it between his fingers, biding time until the earth would consume him. When no such thing happened and Patrick seemed about to burst, Pete saw no escape and decided to just let the flood of thoughts run.

“Instead of writing the lullaby, I kissed you, and the sound you made was so amazing, and then you pulled me close to you, and your kiss was intoxicating, and when I woke up, I was terrified of how you’d respond if you knew, so I ran and I ran and I kept running and I wanted to just run until you forgot all about it, because if you knew what I’d dreamed, you would run too.” Breathless, Pete realized his eyes had decided to flood along with his thoughts. He hid his face in his arms, curled into himself against the wall. The sobbing consumed him until he had no control over himself. He felt a hand carding his hair and an arm wrap around his knees. Patrick’s face was buried in Pete’s hair when he spoke.

“Pete, I love you. I have loved you since we finished making our first song together. When the van crashed, I saw that I was almost taken from this world without telling you, and I knew I had to fix that. I wanted to tell you there, but I thought I should wait until we were back home, where we could really be alone together. I kissed you because I thought it would tell you without words.” Patrick held Pete tightly as his sobbing slowed from hitched breathing to deep, careful breaths. “I love you, Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III, and I always will.” Pete looked up at Patrick, who had let a few tears roll down his cheeks during his confession. He searched Patrick’s face for sincerity, and found himself staring into eyes that shone so brightly with love, the world faded away in the distance. He wanted to never look away, to forever stay in Patrick’s arms and bask in the love he felt emanating from him. Pete freed a hand, bringing it to Patrick’s cheek and closed the distance between them. Patrick’s lips melted him, sending electricity surging through his body.

A knock on the bedroom door tore them apart, filling them with a different kind of shock.

“Pete, will you and Patrick be staying for Lunch?” his mom half-shouted through the door. Pete blushed and looked at Patrick, whose cheeks were beet red.

“Uh, yeah, we’ll be home then,” Pete answered. The frightened look in Patrick’s eyes had been replaced with a giddy grin. Pete’s smile mirrored Patrick’s as they broke into laughter.


	8. 'Cause All Of Our Moves Make Up For The Silence

Pete paced his room nervously. Tonight the music video would go live. Whenever they released content to the fans, he’d resort to biting things—his thumb, a straw, a pen. Anything he could get his teeth on. Patrick watched as Pete subconsciously chewed his lower lip.

“T minus 5 minutes,” Patrick told Pete, knowing it fell on deaf ears. He smirked when Pete immediately looped back to the beginning of their conversation.

“What if they don’t like it? What if they hate it? What do we do if they hate it?” He fixed his eyes on the computer screen, reaching over the singer to hit the F5 key on the keyboard. The page refreshed, showing no changes. Pete knew nothing would be new, but he compulsively hit F5 every time looped back to the first few questions.

“They will, they won’t, and we’ll be fine because they won’t hate it,” Patrick sighed heavily, giving the brief version of the answers he’d been giving in the past twenty minutes.

“But what if they don’t?” Pete reached over him again, only to be stopped by Patrick batting away his hand gently. He grabbed Pete’s face and forced him to look into his eyes.

“Stop. Worrying. They’ll love it,” Patrick chided. “Four minutes. Four minutes until the fans tell us how much they love the video, and four minutes until you stop sulking and pacing around the goddamn room and start bouncing like a fuckin pogo stick.”

The conversation looped like this for three more minutes, until the clock on the dresser flicked to midnight. Pete again reached over Patrick to refresh the page. Patrick caught his arm, pulling him down until their lips collided clumsily. He reached one hand behind Pete’s head, pressing him further into the kiss. Pete moaned softly, surprised by the sudden gesture. He pulled Patrick up out of the chair and into his arms. The attempt failed, both falling onto the bed behind Pete, with Patrick on top. The singer’s face went red, blushing like mad. With Patrick laying on top of him, Pete couldn’t help but think impure thoughts. His pants quickly became altogether too tight as Patrick scrambled out of the awkward position they had fallen upon, and into a more comfortable, straddling position over him.

“Well, this was un—“ Pete was (rudely) interrupted when Patrick leaned down and kissed him, hard, long, and filled with fire. When the shock of Patrick’s forwardness faded, Pete’s hands wandered to Patrick’s hips, where he traced the skin along the lining of his pants. Patrick shuddered, breath hitching when Pete’s fingers reached the front. Pete traced back around, grabbing the younger man’s ass firmly. At this, Patrick quickly moved his tongue into Pete’s mouth, exploring with heated passion. He shifted his weight onto one hand, running his other hand along Pete’s jaw line until it was in his hair, tugging until Pete’s head rolled back with a groan. Patrick kissed from the corner of his mouth down to Pete’s neck below his ear. He began sucking and biting there, where it was Pete’s turn to have hitched breaths, separated by moans. One of Pete’s hands wandered under Patrick’s shirt and further up his back, while the other lingered at the small of his back. Every time Patrick bit him, Pete’s fingers dug into his back, causing Patrick to hum and moan into his neck. Electricity built between them until Pete couldn’t take any more.

“Patrick—f-fuck. Please…” Pete found himself unable to finish his sentence as the younger man’s hand left its station of pulling his hair and traveled down, down Pete’s body, pausing on his chest briefly to feel the racing heartbeat there, continuing to make short work of his belt buckle and pants. Patrick returned his mouth to Pete’s, when they continued exploring the other’s mouth with their tongue. Once he had undone both buckle and zipper, Patrick slowly trailed his fingers along the bulge that strained against the cloth holding it back. Pete felt Patrick’s smirk in their kiss when his entire body twitched under Patrick’s hand, his breathing becoming more and more strained. Pete’s hands wandered to Patrick’s belt, desperate to even the score. Patrick leaned his weight back onto his heels and used his now-free hand to grab Pete’s wrists and pinned them on the bed above his head.

“Not until I say you can,” Patrick crooned, his smile betraying the immense pleasure he was clearly getting from teasing Pete. Patrick returned to Pete’s lips, biting the lower one gently. Pete whined into Patrick’s mouth, causing Patrick to moan in response. Patrick’s lower hand slowly moved under the waistband, barely brushing against the head. Pete’s back arched, a low moan escaping into Patrick’s mouth. Pete knew Patrick reveled in every twitch, every whine, every moan that escaped him. He didn’t care anymore, all he wanted was for Patrick to make him come.

“Please, ‘Trick—“ Pete pleaded, whimpering. His fingers dug deeper into Patrick’s back as Patrick’s teeth nipped at his neck, forcing a low hum out of Patrick into his skin. The electric pressure built up inside Pete, the point of passion rising until he couldn’t take it anymore. Patrick held him there, on the edge, until one bite too many pushed Pete into ecstasy. He hurriedly grabbed a pillow and buried his face in an attempt to drown the loud moaning he soon let out. When he spilled onto Patrick’s hand, the singer returned to Pete’s mouth, kissing him deeply and lovingly.

The two remained there for several minutes, holding eachother and breathing heavily, until Patrick broke the silence with a chuckle.

“What?” Pete pulled back from Patrick and eyed him suspiciously.

“Oh, I just found your off switch, is all,” Patrick cooed through a smug smile. Pete growled and rolled out from underneath him, throwing the pillow at Patrick as he did. Patrick’s smile only widened, his eyes filled with laughter and pride. They wrestled for a short time, oblivious while the comments on the music video rolled in. The fans loved it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first time writing smut, ever >.> Constructive criticism is very much welcomed.


	9. And, Oh, The Way Your Makeup Stains My Pillowcase

Patrick threw his bag onto Pete’s bed. Pete watched from the chair at the desk as he paced the room, seething with rage. Patrick had stormed up the stairs without saying a word.

“’Trick, what happened?” Pete asked, trying to get his attention. Patrick took a few more steps before answering.

“They fucking kicked me out!” he spat at nothing in particular. The anger rolled out of him with every step, every nervous tick in his hands pulsed with fury. He paused in front of the bed and slumped down onto it, leaning his elbows on his knees and burying his face in his hands. Pete rushed to his side, cradling Patrick’s head against his chest. He held him there, carding his fingers through Patrick’s hair a while before he spoke.

“Talk to me, ‘Trick. What’s going on?”

“I didn’t think they would be this way. I didn’t think—“ Patrick paused, voice wavering, clearly on the verge of tears. “I didn’t think my mom would be such a bigot.” His words were sharp and poisoned with bitterness.

Pete froze, confused and unsure how to respond to this. “What—“ Patrick broke from his grasp, sitting up straight and turning his tear-brimmed eyes to Pete’s lost ones.

“They kicked me out because I’m gay,” he spat before he stood up and started pacing again, running a hand through his hair and tugging occasionally. “My mom heard us yesterday. They got home earlier than I thought they would, and my mom apparently heard you through the door.” Pete’s eyes grew wide with understanding and horror all at once. Patrick’s mom had heard them. This was a new kind of terrifying for Pete. Not that he hadn’t been heard by parents before while sleeping with someone—that wasn’t exactly foreign territory. But this was Patrick—the singer, the musician, the light in his darkness. If anything bad happened to him, Pete would tear the world apart to make things right again. And now it looked like he just might have to.

“Okay, it’s ok, you can stay here for a while. We’ll figure this out.” Pete reached out and took Patrick’s hand, rubbing his thumbs along the backside. Patrick calmed enough to return to the bed and lean into Pete.

“What are we going to do?” Patrick spoke into Pete’s shoulder, barely audible. Pete ran his fingers through the younger man’s hair a while again before he spoke.

“Well… Andy and Joe have been talking for a while about how we should get a place of our own. Maybe they’re right? Maybe it’s time we all moved in together.”

Patrick sat up and looked into Pete’s eyes, searching for any hint of a joke. Finding none, he thought on this for a short while, staring at nothing in particular.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he sighed. “We’re making enough to afford it finally, we’re all old enough, and it’d be nice to be able to just get to work on songs at any moment. Andy lives too far, anyway. If anything, he needs to be closer to us.”

“Most definitely. That’s actually what they were saying,” Pete pointed out. “Living with them will definitely make it easier to hammer out the next album.”

“Yeah, but the place would have to have thick walls. I don’t know if I can actually live with Joe’s snoring.” The singer snorted at his own comment. “And Andy might actually kill us if we don’t clean up more often than we have been when on tour.” Patrick began to light up with his laughter. Pete smiled, glad to have Patrick thinking about anything other than his current predicament.

“We’ll be able to throw wicked as hell parties, though!” Pete bounced a little as he talked, increasingly excited.

“Yeah, again about the Andy killing us if we don’t clean up properly,” Patrick smiled. “Not sure about you, but I sort of like this little thing called _being alive_.” He turned to his duffel bag and unzipped it as he spoke. “Which reminds me, you have a bad habit that needs to be addressed.” He pulled out his pillow, careful to keep one side facing down, flipping it over on the last word. The cloth had a two black lines smeared across it. Pete stared at it, confused for a moment, then burst into laughter.

“Yeah, that’s YOUR fuckin eyeliner!” Patrick yelled as he threw the pillow at Pete. Pete laughed harder, falling off the bed as the pillow hit him.


End file.
